Crampons. Sounds like a menstrual issue. Or something someone puts on your style. But no, crampons enhance my style. Or rather they enhance my well-being.
Crampons are metal spikes attached to a web of rubber you stretch over the bottom of your boots. My husband used to wear them years ago when he climbed mountains and trekked across glaciers. He strapped on the heavy-duty ones with mini-spears. I only needed the light kind.
We've had a couple of snowfalls, then rain turning the ground to slush and then freezing. Our driveway is now an expanse of treacherous granite-like grooves. I am obliged to cross them everytime I take Maggie, our Great Dane, out. She is always anxious and she pulls. Scary!
Still more scary is the dog park: a lethal ice-field of peaks and hollows, like waves frozen on a lake. No skating there. Only walking like a Geisha, taking tiny steps where no foot leaves the ground. I daily endure the fear of slipping and tripping and crashing down as dogs slide and collide around me.
I've had two falls on the ice. Once, I tripped over the leashes of my two poodles when I was concentrating on the beauty of Lake Michigan. That time I broke my left middle finger. Painful and a nuisance. Another time my heels went flying out from under me on a patch of black sidewalk ice and I badly bruised my tailbone. Sitting and walking hurt for weeks.
My most surprising injury happened, not on ice, but at the bottom of our basement stairs. When I stepped off I was expecting a floor to be there. It wasn't. It had caved-in. (We lived on the side of a mountain...a long story.) So I stepped out onto nothing and collapsed in the hole where the former floor had been. I broke the outside bones of my right foot. (Why do I say I broke? The lack of a basement floor broke...)
I was in a cast on crutches for weeks. That's not only incapacitating, it's discombobulating. I still had kids at home. I couldn't walk. I couldn't drive. Since I was fearful on stairs with my crutches, I went up and down them on my butt. To bathe, I had to hang my foot over the edge of the tub. Most frustrating of all, I couldn't carry things, like a basketful of laundry, (well, we no longer had a basement to do laundry in, in any case). I couldn't move a pot from one side of the kitchen to the other. I couldn't take a book from room to room , let alone a cup of coffee. I sure developed an empathy for the physically-challenged.
Which is all to say, I did not want to fall on the ice and break a bone or crack my skull. Hence, the crampons. They have revolutionized my life. They are like a "New Age" artifact. They make me feel more positive, they give me stability and balance and confidence, (things of which I'm often in short supply). I can't exactly say they make my spirits soar, but they certainly make them less insecure, less fearful. Ice be damned! I have conquered you. You are no longer an enemy, a cruel force to be avoided. You no longer have the power to emprison me, to hobble me, to do me harm. I have the courage of my footfall.
With crampons, I can go forth with gusto.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Obnoxious Dogs: Mine
I thought I loved dogs. Since going to the dogpark, I realize I don't. I only love some dogs. The ones I don't love are the obnoxious ones.
What makes an obnoxious dog? Not the breed. He/she can be any breed that defies correction. An obnoxious dog barks incessantly, jumps up on me and leaps around me after the ball in the chuckit. Really obnoxious dogs grab the ball right out it. And really obnoxious dogs not only steal balls, they don't return them, running away when their owners try to catch them. (I supply several balls a week to other dogs.) One really obnoxious dog, Ozzie, the Doberman has to be literally choked to give up a stolen ball. (Many dogs "intercept" another dog's ball. That's OK. But on command they drop it. My Great Dane Maggie does this pretty well.)
Obnoxious dogs lunge and snarl, unprovoked. They gang up on submissive dogs. Obnoxious dogs play too roughly. Maggie had a dime-sized piece of flesh taken from her left thigh by Hopkins, a black Standard Poodle.
And obnoxious dogs whine.
As much as it kills me to say it, because I love him dearly, my silver-grey Toy Poodle, Hutchie is an obnoxious dog, a major brat.
I never intended to have him but I couldn't separate him from his white sister Gracie. They were two bouncing pom-poms. From the start, Gracie was a bit shy and always calm. Hutch lept up off the ground on his little back legs if they had springs, barking, barking, barking. That's his most dominant trait: he's vocal, (to be euphemistic). He goes beserk when he sees deer or a coyote in the wilderness preserve behind our house. He yaps like crazy when he sees our neighbour's cat. But mostly he seems to bark at pure air, as if he had microscopic vision and could see whatever invisible things exist. I've corrected him over and over, squeezing his furry muzzle with a forceful "no!". I've sprayed him with water tinged with vinegar. Everything works momentarily. He stops. But then he begins again.
The springing up on his hind legs means he does it on me and whoever happens to come to the door. "Off!" I command. And he does. For a few seconds. And then he's boing-boinging again against my knees, his tail moving as fast as a hummingbird.
And he whines. He whines when he wants me; he whines when he wants something. (I often have no idea.) He whines just because he hates silence.
He has been particularly nasty to Maggie, lungeing and snarling and biting her jowls since she arrived. He's horribly jealous and can't share me or toys without turning on her, even if they get a good game of "tug" going with the octopus. He's worst when she has a big marrow bone, which she loves to put on my lap, right where Hutchie lies. I hold him back and say "leave it!", but instinctively he growls and snaps and I have to put him down.
At the dogpark, he's quite hostile to some dogs, usually the ones romping all around him to play. He particularly doesn't like puppies. And if other dogs seem to be in an escalated skirmish, he charges at them, barking, as if he's policing them. We call him "Hutchie le Flic," (the French word for "cop".) (To give both him and Gracie their due, if a dog steals their ball, their only reaction is to follow the perpetrator around hoping he/she will release it.)
He is like one of those anklets they put around prisoners to keep track of them. I've learned to keep the bathroom door open as he will make a fuss outside if I don't. When I'm on the sofa, he's tight against me. The same when I'm in bed. Even though he only weighs 12 pounds, he's a lump that makes it difficult for me to move, because he doesn't.
When I arrive home from somewhere, he shrieks from behind the door as if he's being tortured. He makes the same piercing noise when we arrive at the dog park. Then he chews and pulls on Gracie's leash when we walk to the gate, tripping me. (I'm already trying to handle Maggie in her excitement and carry a large cooler of water.)
Why do I keep him? Why do I love him? Well, he's cozy and loyal and trusting. He has an inquisitive, alert, endearing face that gives the impression he'd return a conversation if he could. He has a lean, jaunty body, athletic for its size and he struts when he walks. He's fearless. One day he took after a coyote in our yard. I thought it was the end of him but he came back. He adores his sister. She has those runny red eyes that small white dogs often have, but in fact she doesn't, because he keeps them clean. Lately, he's even been cleaning Maggie's face.
When I throw the ball at the dogpark, if he gets to it before Gracie, he drops it at my feet. (Gracie usually takes it under a picnic table where she thinks she can protect it. A thieving dog can grab a ball with the speed of a striking rattlesnake.)
When you get a dog, you make a commitment to him/her: to love and care for them, treat them with firmness and accept their faults. Some faults in a dog are fixable and Hutchie's probably are. I keep thinking of getting an electronic training collar for him, (like the one that's worked so well for Maggie) but he's not a puppy. He's five. I wonder if his bad habits are embedded.
For now, I'll sigh and grit my teeth and breathe deeply and sternly reprimand him when he's obnoxious. And cuddle him when he's not.
What makes an obnoxious dog? Not the breed. He/she can be any breed that defies correction. An obnoxious dog barks incessantly, jumps up on me and leaps around me after the ball in the chuckit. Really obnoxious dogs grab the ball right out it. And really obnoxious dogs not only steal balls, they don't return them, running away when their owners try to catch them. (I supply several balls a week to other dogs.) One really obnoxious dog, Ozzie, the Doberman has to be literally choked to give up a stolen ball. (Many dogs "intercept" another dog's ball. That's OK. But on command they drop it. My Great Dane Maggie does this pretty well.)
Obnoxious dogs lunge and snarl, unprovoked. They gang up on submissive dogs. Obnoxious dogs play too roughly. Maggie had a dime-sized piece of flesh taken from her left thigh by Hopkins, a black Standard Poodle.
And obnoxious dogs whine.
As much as it kills me to say it, because I love him dearly, my silver-grey Toy Poodle, Hutchie is an obnoxious dog, a major brat.
I never intended to have him but I couldn't separate him from his white sister Gracie. They were two bouncing pom-poms. From the start, Gracie was a bit shy and always calm. Hutch lept up off the ground on his little back legs if they had springs, barking, barking, barking. That's his most dominant trait: he's vocal, (to be euphemistic). He goes beserk when he sees deer or a coyote in the wilderness preserve behind our house. He yaps like crazy when he sees our neighbour's cat. But mostly he seems to bark at pure air, as if he had microscopic vision and could see whatever invisible things exist. I've corrected him over and over, squeezing his furry muzzle with a forceful "no!". I've sprayed him with water tinged with vinegar. Everything works momentarily. He stops. But then he begins again.
The springing up on his hind legs means he does it on me and whoever happens to come to the door. "Off!" I command. And he does. For a few seconds. And then he's boing-boinging again against my knees, his tail moving as fast as a hummingbird.
And he whines. He whines when he wants me; he whines when he wants something. (I often have no idea.) He whines just because he hates silence.
He has been particularly nasty to Maggie, lungeing and snarling and biting her jowls since she arrived. He's horribly jealous and can't share me or toys without turning on her, even if they get a good game of "tug" going with the octopus. He's worst when she has a big marrow bone, which she loves to put on my lap, right where Hutchie lies. I hold him back and say "leave it!", but instinctively he growls and snaps and I have to put him down.
At the dogpark, he's quite hostile to some dogs, usually the ones romping all around him to play. He particularly doesn't like puppies. And if other dogs seem to be in an escalated skirmish, he charges at them, barking, as if he's policing them. We call him "Hutchie le Flic," (the French word for "cop".) (To give both him and Gracie their due, if a dog steals their ball, their only reaction is to follow the perpetrator around hoping he/she will release it.)
He is like one of those anklets they put around prisoners to keep track of them. I've learned to keep the bathroom door open as he will make a fuss outside if I don't. When I'm on the sofa, he's tight against me. The same when I'm in bed. Even though he only weighs 12 pounds, he's a lump that makes it difficult for me to move, because he doesn't.
When I arrive home from somewhere, he shrieks from behind the door as if he's being tortured. He makes the same piercing noise when we arrive at the dog park. Then he chews and pulls on Gracie's leash when we walk to the gate, tripping me. (I'm already trying to handle Maggie in her excitement and carry a large cooler of water.)
Why do I keep him? Why do I love him? Well, he's cozy and loyal and trusting. He has an inquisitive, alert, endearing face that gives the impression he'd return a conversation if he could. He has a lean, jaunty body, athletic for its size and he struts when he walks. He's fearless. One day he took after a coyote in our yard. I thought it was the end of him but he came back. He adores his sister. She has those runny red eyes that small white dogs often have, but in fact she doesn't, because he keeps them clean. Lately, he's even been cleaning Maggie's face.
When I throw the ball at the dogpark, if he gets to it before Gracie, he drops it at my feet. (Gracie usually takes it under a picnic table where she thinks she can protect it. A thieving dog can grab a ball with the speed of a striking rattlesnake.)
When you get a dog, you make a commitment to him/her: to love and care for them, treat them with firmness and accept their faults. Some faults in a dog are fixable and Hutchie's probably are. I keep thinking of getting an electronic training collar for him, (like the one that's worked so well for Maggie) but he's not a puppy. He's five. I wonder if his bad habits are embedded.
For now, I'll sigh and grit my teeth and breathe deeply and sternly reprimand him when he's obnoxious. And cuddle him when he's not.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Interspecies Relationships: Dogs and Cats
Don't you just love interspecies relationships? Not husbands and wives. I'm talking about cats and dogs. Why would a 16 pound cat allow a 125 pound dog to flip him over with her large muzzle and chew at his belly, all the while purring? Why doesn't the dog grab the cat by the neck and shake him, the way she does her stuffed animals? What kind of confidence in the dog, what kind of trust must the cat possess? And where do they come from?
When I say "chew", I mean that Maggie, our 11-month-old Great Dane takes Niger's skin between her front teeth and nibbles his whole body, leaving him a slobbery mess. When she stops, the cat butts her and licks her nose for more.
We think of cats and dogs as natural enemies. Cats are small, like rabbits and rats, a dog's prey. Even little Terriers catch badgers. Cats run when confronted, inviting chase. It's a rare, brave cat who stands his/her ground with a dog and spits and swats his face. Cats inhabit entirely different territory from dogs - in their heads and their habits. Cats prowl. Dogs lope and sniff. Cats can self-feed. Dogs gobble. Cats are self-contained, particular. Dogs are devoted and gregarious. A catpark would never work. Cats are loose and languorous. Dogs are taut. You can't drape a dog around your neck, though he/she would probably love it. If they weren't domesticated, cats' and dogs' paths likely wouldn't cross. But they do: in our kitchens, on our sofas, on our beds. And it's this accepting, often affectionate arrangement that intrigues me.
Niger, a black Siamese/Abyssinian cross, weighed about a pound when we got him. He was so fragile, he felt like a hairy mass of pipe cleaners. At the time, we had our first blue Great Dane, Lily. She was a rescue, six months old when we found her and for awhile she was aggressive, not with us, but with all other people. When Niger arrived, Lily was a year old and she weighed 120 pounds.
It astounds me now, but I never considered that Lily might be a danger to Niger. Lily loomed over him, curious but not menacing. Niger initially spit and spat but he didn't budge. Lily seemed to respect that and they became friends, not simply tolerant friends but close friends. That tiny kitten always curled into her where she slept, prodding her for comfort. They walked around outside together and Lily never chased him. It wasn't accord, it was attachment.
Niger was 9 when we got 3-month-old Maggie. Niger is massive. Maggie was not much larger, but she had puppy power. She was bold with the cat, putting her large paw on his back, practically crushing him. Occasionally Niger would run to escape and Maggie would give chase but soon that stopped and the crazy teeny bites began. Niger submitted with seeming pleasure as he does every day, until one of them gets bored, (usually Maggie).
We've had 2 Irish Wolfhounds, an Irish Setter/ Newfoundland cross and two Great Danes. We've even had a Bichon. And we've always had several cats with them. And everyone got along. Our Bichon actually had a cozy relationship with a Siamese, Yo-Yi. But never have I seen the kind of "intimacy" that Niger has had with both Lily and Maggie where their instinctive boundaries disappear and the animals exist on a plane removed from their normal species' behavior. It's as if each actually loses some specific, essential characteristics and he/she becomes "other". We can't figure it out and they don't need to. They just snuggle and lick with the tight assurance of litter-mates.
Niger is one of those cats who gets the ultimate feline compliment: "He thinks he's a dog." He comes when he's called, he listens and talks back, he gives kisses, he's obnoxiously friendly with guests. His affection is insatiable. He hugs. He gives as good as he gets.
Lily was a big dog. Maggie is bigger. Their breed is known for its docility. But Great Danes also hunted large game, so they have a pursuing instinct. They were also war dogs. Lily could have killed Niger and Maggie still could. In fact, I'm not sure that if the dogs were outdoors and saw a cat, they wouldn't chase it and likely kill it if they caught it. Inside, Maggie almost attacks the glass when our neighbour's cat walks by.
So why the love for Niger? Is it the individual animal or the household? Have the dogs and Niger somehow adapted their primal behavior because of us, because of our gentle, firm, consistent treatment of them? Is it super-love by example? No specific training was used. Acceptance was pretty much immediate. The love came later.
I say love because I don't know what else to call it. I'm not sure dogs and especially cats feel love as we know it. Do we fill them past brimming the way they do us? Is the connection deeper than simply food, petting and a comfortable place to sleep? What does a cat get from a dog and vice-versa?
They must give each other something for the loving to exist. Maggie nibbles Niger. Niger purrs. Something must be going on.
And they're always glad to see each other. Niger weaves in and out of Maggie's legs, stroking his body. She nudges him, tail thwapping. If they're glad to see each other, it must mean they've missed each other, wouldn't you think?
The only answer I have is what my eyes tell me.
When I say "chew", I mean that Maggie, our 11-month-old Great Dane takes Niger's skin between her front teeth and nibbles his whole body, leaving him a slobbery mess. When she stops, the cat butts her and licks her nose for more.
We think of cats and dogs as natural enemies. Cats are small, like rabbits and rats, a dog's prey. Even little Terriers catch badgers. Cats run when confronted, inviting chase. It's a rare, brave cat who stands his/her ground with a dog and spits and swats his face. Cats inhabit entirely different territory from dogs - in their heads and their habits. Cats prowl. Dogs lope and sniff. Cats can self-feed. Dogs gobble. Cats are self-contained, particular. Dogs are devoted and gregarious. A catpark would never work. Cats are loose and languorous. Dogs are taut. You can't drape a dog around your neck, though he/she would probably love it. If they weren't domesticated, cats' and dogs' paths likely wouldn't cross. But they do: in our kitchens, on our sofas, on our beds. And it's this accepting, often affectionate arrangement that intrigues me.
Niger, a black Siamese/Abyssinian cross, weighed about a pound when we got him. He was so fragile, he felt like a hairy mass of pipe cleaners. At the time, we had our first blue Great Dane, Lily. She was a rescue, six months old when we found her and for awhile she was aggressive, not with us, but with all other people. When Niger arrived, Lily was a year old and she weighed 120 pounds.
It astounds me now, but I never considered that Lily might be a danger to Niger. Lily loomed over him, curious but not menacing. Niger initially spit and spat but he didn't budge. Lily seemed to respect that and they became friends, not simply tolerant friends but close friends. That tiny kitten always curled into her where she slept, prodding her for comfort. They walked around outside together and Lily never chased him. It wasn't accord, it was attachment.
Niger was 9 when we got 3-month-old Maggie. Niger is massive. Maggie was not much larger, but she had puppy power. She was bold with the cat, putting her large paw on his back, practically crushing him. Occasionally Niger would run to escape and Maggie would give chase but soon that stopped and the crazy teeny bites began. Niger submitted with seeming pleasure as he does every day, until one of them gets bored, (usually Maggie).
We've had 2 Irish Wolfhounds, an Irish Setter/ Newfoundland cross and two Great Danes. We've even had a Bichon. And we've always had several cats with them. And everyone got along. Our Bichon actually had a cozy relationship with a Siamese, Yo-Yi. But never have I seen the kind of "intimacy" that Niger has had with both Lily and Maggie where their instinctive boundaries disappear and the animals exist on a plane removed from their normal species' behavior. It's as if each actually loses some specific, essential characteristics and he/she becomes "other". We can't figure it out and they don't need to. They just snuggle and lick with the tight assurance of litter-mates.
Niger is one of those cats who gets the ultimate feline compliment: "He thinks he's a dog." He comes when he's called, he listens and talks back, he gives kisses, he's obnoxiously friendly with guests. His affection is insatiable. He hugs. He gives as good as he gets.
Lily was a big dog. Maggie is bigger. Their breed is known for its docility. But Great Danes also hunted large game, so they have a pursuing instinct. They were also war dogs. Lily could have killed Niger and Maggie still could. In fact, I'm not sure that if the dogs were outdoors and saw a cat, they wouldn't chase it and likely kill it if they caught it. Inside, Maggie almost attacks the glass when our neighbour's cat walks by.
So why the love for Niger? Is it the individual animal or the household? Have the dogs and Niger somehow adapted their primal behavior because of us, because of our gentle, firm, consistent treatment of them? Is it super-love by example? No specific training was used. Acceptance was pretty much immediate. The love came later.
I say love because I don't know what else to call it. I'm not sure dogs and especially cats feel love as we know it. Do we fill them past brimming the way they do us? Is the connection deeper than simply food, petting and a comfortable place to sleep? What does a cat get from a dog and vice-versa?
They must give each other something for the loving to exist. Maggie nibbles Niger. Niger purrs. Something must be going on.
And they're always glad to see each other. Niger weaves in and out of Maggie's legs, stroking his body. She nudges him, tail thwapping. If they're glad to see each other, it must mean they've missed each other, wouldn't you think?
The only answer I have is what my eyes tell me.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Pit Bull Attack (3): Confrontation
3:00 pm, Tuesday December 9
So I'm alone at the dogpark in the storm. I haven't brought the two Poodles Gracie and Hutch because they can't find the tennis ball in the snow and chasing the ball is all they care about. Maggie, the Great Dane, is roaring around. Then a silver pickup pulls in and a tall man in L.L. Bean outdoor wear gets out with a caramel-coloured Pit Bull. I recognize the man as the owner of the dog who attacked Gracie several days ago. The Pit Bull, as on that day, is not leashed. My heart lurches. What if I had had the Poodles?
The dog races to the gate and Maggie runs up to greet her as she does with every arriving dog and the Pit Bull snarls and lunges at the fence.
"Roxy!" the man yells and lets Roxy in. Roxy snarls and lunges at Maggie again and Maggie goes into play stance. Roxy doesn't respond and trots off. I approach the owner in nice-as-apple-pie mode. He's as nice-as-apple-pie back.
"That's the dog who attacked my little Poodle on Monday, " I say.
"Really?" he answers.
"Yes. In the parking lot. Such a vicious dog should be on a leash."
"She's not vicious."
"What do you call what she did to my dog?" The man says nothing.
"She could have killed her. Pit Bull's jaws clamp shut." The man again says nothing.
Then, he offers, "You should have seen Roxy two years ago. She was a rescue and she'd never been socialized. I work with her everyday. Her former owner mistreated her."
"That's why she should be on a leash."
He asks, "Was your dog hurt?"
"A little. There was a mark but no blood."
"I'm very sorry."
"You should keep an eye on that dog," I reiterate, still pleasant, silently cursing my "proper" upbringing. Never create a disturbance. Migawd. The man's Pit Bull...his PIT BULL...had my little dog by the neck, pinned. She was screaming. I should be raging at him.
The man turns from me, calls "Roxy!" and they go off down the path. I let them get ahead and then I follow with Maggie. She's a dawdler sometimes. There are lots of new smells in the snow. Now I am enraged. "Will it take a mauling, a death?" I think. I hear barking back on the playground and I half-hope Roxy will attack again and I'll have some reinforcement.
By the time Maggie and I have gone around the loop there's no sign of the Pit Bull or the owner. His truck has gone. But I run into a woman with three small dogs who was in her car as he and Roxy were leaving. She tells me Roxy threw herself at her car.
If Roxy's owner returns I'm going to get his license and report him to the Forest Preserve. There's a $75. fine for an unleashed dog in the parking lot. He's done it twice now. And I'm going to say this Pit Bull is dangerous.
So I'm alone at the dogpark in the storm. I haven't brought the two Poodles Gracie and Hutch because they can't find the tennis ball in the snow and chasing the ball is all they care about. Maggie, the Great Dane, is roaring around. Then a silver pickup pulls in and a tall man in L.L. Bean outdoor wear gets out with a caramel-coloured Pit Bull. I recognize the man as the owner of the dog who attacked Gracie several days ago. The Pit Bull, as on that day, is not leashed. My heart lurches. What if I had had the Poodles?
The dog races to the gate and Maggie runs up to greet her as she does with every arriving dog and the Pit Bull snarls and lunges at the fence.
"Roxy!" the man yells and lets Roxy in. Roxy snarls and lunges at Maggie again and Maggie goes into play stance. Roxy doesn't respond and trots off. I approach the owner in nice-as-apple-pie mode. He's as nice-as-apple-pie back.
"That's the dog who attacked my little Poodle on Monday, " I say.
"Really?" he answers.
"Yes. In the parking lot. Such a vicious dog should be on a leash."
"She's not vicious."
"What do you call what she did to my dog?" The man says nothing.
"She could have killed her. Pit Bull's jaws clamp shut." The man again says nothing.
Then, he offers, "You should have seen Roxy two years ago. She was a rescue and she'd never been socialized. I work with her everyday. Her former owner mistreated her."
"That's why she should be on a leash."
He asks, "Was your dog hurt?"
"A little. There was a mark but no blood."
"I'm very sorry."
"You should keep an eye on that dog," I reiterate, still pleasant, silently cursing my "proper" upbringing. Never create a disturbance. Migawd. The man's Pit Bull...his PIT BULL...had my little dog by the neck, pinned. She was screaming. I should be raging at him.
The man turns from me, calls "Roxy!" and they go off down the path. I let them get ahead and then I follow with Maggie. She's a dawdler sometimes. There are lots of new smells in the snow. Now I am enraged. "Will it take a mauling, a death?" I think. I hear barking back on the playground and I half-hope Roxy will attack again and I'll have some reinforcement.
By the time Maggie and I have gone around the loop there's no sign of the Pit Bull or the owner. His truck has gone. But I run into a woman with three small dogs who was in her car as he and Roxy were leaving. She tells me Roxy threw herself at her car.
If Roxy's owner returns I'm going to get his license and report him to the Forest Preserve. There's a $75. fine for an unleashed dog in the parking lot. He's done it twice now. And I'm going to say this Pit Bull is dangerous.
Winter Storm: trapped with dogs
Snow is whipping across the landscape. But it's not dense, it's filmy. Not like cotton but chiffon. That's because it's mixed with rain.
It's not cold. Only 34 degrees F. But it's going to get colder. And the rain/snow will thicken, obliterating my view, a flailing white sheet dropped from the heavens. The ground, now sloppy, will harden. The clusters of brown oak leaves on the lawn will skitter across it. The walk, which hasn't been shovelled will have icy peaks and hollows.
This isn't one of those first, gentle snowfalls romaticized on calendars and Christmas cards. In a gentle snowfall, everything is softened. But as I look out, the day is harsh. The straight-up blackness of the trees pierces the metallic sky. The prevailing wind has packed the west-facing trunks and branches with white: a stark contrast. The rushes of the marshes and the dead wildflowers on the prairie stand up like weapons in the slush. Soon the weight of snow will beat them down and the horizon will be flat.
This is the most entrapping kind of storm. The visibility is tenuous. The roads will be slick, the walkways impassable. No children will be rolling big balls of snow for snowmen. It's a day when you want to light a fire and hunker down and watch old movies.
But not if you have dogs. You can't say to a restless dog, "It's too awful to go out there. We'll have to stay in. I'll read you stories. We'll play games."
My dogs have an internal clock set to "park-time". Somewhere between 2:30 and 3pm , Hutchie, the grey toy poodle jumps up and barks. Maggie, the Great Dane is more subtle but just as insistent. If I'm at my computer or studying Spanish, she wedges her head firmly under my arm and pushes. Or she rests her big slobbery muzzle on the desk. If I'm standing up, she leans into me. She follows me around, stepping on my feet. She gets a look that isn't the usual canine pleading. It's look of assertion. She's absolutely certain it's time and that we'll be going.
But the park is going to be hell, today. Any day it requires effort and time. Effort now to pile on winter gear. Effort to fill the water cooler, effort to get the three dogs into the car, effort to drive to the park, effort to contain their excitement when you get there.
And time, because I can't just go for five or ten minutes. I have to go for at least an hour. And today, I'm going to be lashed by the storm while the dogs get rid of their pent up energy. I'm going to throw the ball into the gauzy air only to have it disappear. I'm going to trudge around the perimeter, shoulders hunched while my dogs romp.
The best thing about the dogpark is that there are die-hards: people who have to get their dog out no matter the conditions. We're the usual few, now as familiar with each other as our dogs.
It's not that we know a lot about each other. We really only know about our commitment to our pets. That unites us. It's a sense of commonality that makes a storm...or any oppressive weather...bearable.
Yesterday, I was at the dogpark when the storm was just starting. The wind was wicked. It flung wet snow in my face. I felt as if I was on the Steppes of Russia.
But at least I wasn't alone.
It's not cold. Only 34 degrees F. But it's going to get colder. And the rain/snow will thicken, obliterating my view, a flailing white sheet dropped from the heavens. The ground, now sloppy, will harden. The clusters of brown oak leaves on the lawn will skitter across it. The walk, which hasn't been shovelled will have icy peaks and hollows.
This isn't one of those first, gentle snowfalls romaticized on calendars and Christmas cards. In a gentle snowfall, everything is softened. But as I look out, the day is harsh. The straight-up blackness of the trees pierces the metallic sky. The prevailing wind has packed the west-facing trunks and branches with white: a stark contrast. The rushes of the marshes and the dead wildflowers on the prairie stand up like weapons in the slush. Soon the weight of snow will beat them down and the horizon will be flat.
This is the most entrapping kind of storm. The visibility is tenuous. The roads will be slick, the walkways impassable. No children will be rolling big balls of snow for snowmen. It's a day when you want to light a fire and hunker down and watch old movies.
But not if you have dogs. You can't say to a restless dog, "It's too awful to go out there. We'll have to stay in. I'll read you stories. We'll play games."
My dogs have an internal clock set to "park-time". Somewhere between 2:30 and 3pm , Hutchie, the grey toy poodle jumps up and barks. Maggie, the Great Dane is more subtle but just as insistent. If I'm at my computer or studying Spanish, she wedges her head firmly under my arm and pushes. Or she rests her big slobbery muzzle on the desk. If I'm standing up, she leans into me. She follows me around, stepping on my feet. She gets a look that isn't the usual canine pleading. It's look of assertion. She's absolutely certain it's time and that we'll be going.
But the park is going to be hell, today. Any day it requires effort and time. Effort now to pile on winter gear. Effort to fill the water cooler, effort to get the three dogs into the car, effort to drive to the park, effort to contain their excitement when you get there.
And time, because I can't just go for five or ten minutes. I have to go for at least an hour. And today, I'm going to be lashed by the storm while the dogs get rid of their pent up energy. I'm going to throw the ball into the gauzy air only to have it disappear. I'm going to trudge around the perimeter, shoulders hunched while my dogs romp.
The best thing about the dogpark is that there are die-hards: people who have to get their dog out no matter the conditions. We're the usual few, now as familiar with each other as our dogs.
It's not that we know a lot about each other. We really only know about our commitment to our pets. That unites us. It's a sense of commonality that makes a storm...or any oppressive weather...bearable.
Yesterday, I was at the dogpark when the storm was just starting. The wind was wicked. It flung wet snow in my face. I felt as if I was on the Steppes of Russia.
But at least I wasn't alone.
Pit Bull Attack At The Dogpark (2)
Since my Toy Poodle was attacked by a Pit Bull a couple of days ago, I haven't been able to stop obsessing about it.
Maybe it's an urban myth, maybe it's true but I've heard Pit Bulls' jaws can lock during an attack. I've also heard if you try to interrupt the fight, the dog can turn on you.
She was shaken-up, but unhurt, fortunately. However, all I can see is the body of that little white dog lying bloodied in the snow. Or else my own face or hands covered with slashes. It's true I have a vivid imagination but the scenarios are real. Fighting is embedded in Pit Bulls' genes. They have the potential to be brutal and they do kill.
The majority of the attacks at the dogpark are by Pit Bulls.
And you know what? I'm f-ing tired of them. I'm tired of being wary: suspiciously, fearfully watching any Pit Bull play. Two of them, Missy and Tuxedo, apparently "nice" dogs I've known for several months have become aggressive and been forced to leave the park.
Yesterday I was walking around the perimeter and I saw a Pit Bull approaching. My heart skipped a beat and sure enough, the dog turned on my Great Dane Maggie, who is only eleven months. There was no provocation. Maggie yelped. The incident was short-lived and the owner reprimanded the offender. They always say, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Or, "WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?" as if the dog had never behaved viciously before. Sure they have. And the owners know it.
Are they hopelessly naive? Do they think each altercation is the last one? Or are they simply arrogant, filled with a perverse sense of entitlement that their dog, notwithstanding he/she isn't trustworthy, has a right to be at the park? Are they waiting for a mauling, a death, a lawsuit?
Ontario, the province in Canada where I am from has put into place legislation banning Pit Bulls. Because of a "reasoned apprehension of harm", the law prevents people from breeding the dog, or acquiring one. Current dogs must be neutered, muzzled and on a leash.
France, Britain and Germany have passed similar laws. And also in Canada, in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Pit Bulls have been banned for 14 years. The last known Pit Bull died in 2004.
I don't know. Maybe that's a bit extreme. But I don't think people are breeding Pit Bulls for their docility. They mostly get bred randomly and irresponsibly and given away to just anyone, usually people who have no idea how to control dogs, let alone Pit Bulls. The shelters are full of abandoned ones.
There is something precipitately fierce about them. It's a kind of hard-wired savage insanity that can break out at any time. Even the best-natured of Pit Bulls has erupted. How often after an attack have you heard the owner say, "He/she was always so gentle and affectionate."
The four-year-old nephew of a woman at the park was shredded by two Pit Bulls he'd been playing happily with for two years. They got his jugular and several of his internal organs. Miraculously, the child lived, but no-one thought he would.
You just never know with a Pit Bull. It's true, you never really know with any dog but Pit Bulls are notoriously and continuously hazardous. They should be muzzled and on a leash, even the most loving of them. They're a gun with the safety release off. Actually, they're a gun that has been cocked.
I am so happy I didn't lose Gracie. I am so glad I didn't get injured myself. I still feel frightened when I think of the incident. All I can see is my dog's, my own helplessness.
But I also feel really, really angry because it never should have happened.
Maybe it's an urban myth, maybe it's true but I've heard Pit Bulls' jaws can lock during an attack. I've also heard if you try to interrupt the fight, the dog can turn on you.
She was shaken-up, but unhurt, fortunately. However, all I can see is the body of that little white dog lying bloodied in the snow. Or else my own face or hands covered with slashes. It's true I have a vivid imagination but the scenarios are real. Fighting is embedded in Pit Bulls' genes. They have the potential to be brutal and they do kill.
The majority of the attacks at the dogpark are by Pit Bulls.
And you know what? I'm f-ing tired of them. I'm tired of being wary: suspiciously, fearfully watching any Pit Bull play. Two of them, Missy and Tuxedo, apparently "nice" dogs I've known for several months have become aggressive and been forced to leave the park.
Yesterday I was walking around the perimeter and I saw a Pit Bull approaching. My heart skipped a beat and sure enough, the dog turned on my Great Dane Maggie, who is only eleven months. There was no provocation. Maggie yelped. The incident was short-lived and the owner reprimanded the offender. They always say, "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Or, "WHAT WAS THAT ABOUT?" as if the dog had never behaved viciously before. Sure they have. And the owners know it.
Are they hopelessly naive? Do they think each altercation is the last one? Or are they simply arrogant, filled with a perverse sense of entitlement that their dog, notwithstanding he/she isn't trustworthy, has a right to be at the park? Are they waiting for a mauling, a death, a lawsuit?
Ontario, the province in Canada where I am from has put into place legislation banning Pit Bulls. Because of a "reasoned apprehension of harm", the law prevents people from breeding the dog, or acquiring one. Current dogs must be neutered, muzzled and on a leash.
France, Britain and Germany have passed similar laws. And also in Canada, in Winnipeg, Manitoba, Pit Bulls have been banned for 14 years. The last known Pit Bull died in 2004.
I don't know. Maybe that's a bit extreme. But I don't think people are breeding Pit Bulls for their docility. They mostly get bred randomly and irresponsibly and given away to just anyone, usually people who have no idea how to control dogs, let alone Pit Bulls. The shelters are full of abandoned ones.
There is something precipitately fierce about them. It's a kind of hard-wired savage insanity that can break out at any time. Even the best-natured of Pit Bulls has erupted. How often after an attack have you heard the owner say, "He/she was always so gentle and affectionate."
The four-year-old nephew of a woman at the park was shredded by two Pit Bulls he'd been playing happily with for two years. They got his jugular and several of his internal organs. Miraculously, the child lived, but no-one thought he would.
You just never know with a Pit Bull. It's true, you never really know with any dog but Pit Bulls are notoriously and continuously hazardous. They should be muzzled and on a leash, even the most loving of them. They're a gun with the safety release off. Actually, they're a gun that has been cocked.
I am so happy I didn't lose Gracie. I am so glad I didn't get injured myself. I still feel frightened when I think of the incident. All I can see is my dog's, my own helplessness.
But I also feel really, really angry because it never should have happened.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Pit Bull Attack At Dog Park
Gracie, my white toy poodle was attacked by a Pit Bull yesterday. She was OK. Thank goodness. It happened in the parking lot at the dogpark. I was just getting out of my car with my three dogs, the other Toy Poodle, Hutchie and the Great Dane Maggie. A man who was leaving approached me and complimented me on the Great Dane. He had a dog with him I hadn't really noticed but then, in a flash, the dog, a caramel-coloured Pit Bull lunged at Gracie and pinned her on her back by the neck. She weights 12 pounds, the Pit probably 80.
The rest is a blur of fear and screams and snarling. I grabbed the Pit Bull, but it was wearing a coat and it slipped off. I grabbed it again by the scruff of the neck but couldn't remove him.. Somehow, I don't remember how, the owner got the Pit Bull off.
"Is there blood?" the man asked. Gracie wouldn't let us near but there appeared not to be. Still, a dog was injured in the park awhile ago with a wound that did not bleed but required several stitches. Seeing she seemed alright, the owner said "Sorry" and disappeared with the offending dog. I was so shaken up I didn't think to ask for his name or permit number to report him to the ranger.
When Gracie stopped shaking, I examined her neck: nothing but a thick mass of curls and her leather and crystal-studded collar. I think that's what protected her.
Maggie balked at the gate to the park. She was noticeably trembling and I had difficulty calming her. It took me awhile to stop trembling, myself.
From inside, no-one had seen the incident as it was behind the parked cars but I was told that the same Pit Bull had just attacked another dog and that's why he and the owner were leaving.
I have tried to be open and receptive to the Pit Bulls at the park because I confess to a prejudice against them. In fact, I am terrified of them. I know someone whose little dog was killed at his feet by a Pit Bull.
I have quite liked Missy, a good-natured year-old brown and white Pit who has been one of Maggie's favourite friends. I really like Missy's owner, though she seems not to be aware of her dog's inate tendencies. Missy has been aggressive and forced to leave the park. So has Tuxedo, another Pit Bull, seven or-eight months old when we first met him. Then, he was a fair - though rough - player and another friend of Maggie's. Lately, there have been some vicious incidents. Milo, a Viszla/Pit Bull mix always escalates play into something fierce.
Ironically, the night before in Chicago, a Pit Bull had attacked two children. I know only too well, the adage, "There are no bad dogs, only bad owners." But Pit Bulls seem always to be the breed at the centre of canine violence. Oh sure, other dogs at the park have been forceful and imposing, baring teeth and making lots of noise. There are two Huskies, Koda and Aspen of whom I'm a bit leery. Their owner is aware of their potential and says it concerns him. He keeps them in close watch. Nicky, the extroverted Border Collie was attacked by two Golden Retrievers whose owner said, "They've never done that before!" She wasn't even apologetic.
In fact, I suspect most dogs have it in them "snap". You know what? I don't really believe that. I can't imagine my docile 11-month-old Great Dane ever turning on another dog. But I have seen Beauregard, her cousin, almost lose it with the brindle Great Dane, Zyedeco who actually has pinned down Mason, the American barrel-of-a-dog-Bulldog. And, Hutchie, my cute and woolly male toy poodle has snarled and lept at Maggie and grabbed her jowls until she shrieked. I suppose a day might come when Maggie might retaliate, which would be terrifying.
After Gracie's attack, people were again saying Pit Bulls should be banned from the park, or at least muzzled and kept on a leash. They reiterated that Pit Bulls have been bred to fight and can't ever be trusted. That's when the owner of Claire, an English Bull Terrier said, "So has my dog." Claire is one of the jolliest dogs in the park.
I hate to say it, but I'd be glad if I never saw another Pit Bull there.
The rest is a blur of fear and screams and snarling. I grabbed the Pit Bull, but it was wearing a coat and it slipped off. I grabbed it again by the scruff of the neck but couldn't remove him.. Somehow, I don't remember how, the owner got the Pit Bull off.
"Is there blood?" the man asked. Gracie wouldn't let us near but there appeared not to be. Still, a dog was injured in the park awhile ago with a wound that did not bleed but required several stitches. Seeing she seemed alright, the owner said "Sorry" and disappeared with the offending dog. I was so shaken up I didn't think to ask for his name or permit number to report him to the ranger.
When Gracie stopped shaking, I examined her neck: nothing but a thick mass of curls and her leather and crystal-studded collar. I think that's what protected her.
Maggie balked at the gate to the park. She was noticeably trembling and I had difficulty calming her. It took me awhile to stop trembling, myself.
From inside, no-one had seen the incident as it was behind the parked cars but I was told that the same Pit Bull had just attacked another dog and that's why he and the owner were leaving.
I have tried to be open and receptive to the Pit Bulls at the park because I confess to a prejudice against them. In fact, I am terrified of them. I know someone whose little dog was killed at his feet by a Pit Bull.
I have quite liked Missy, a good-natured year-old brown and white Pit who has been one of Maggie's favourite friends. I really like Missy's owner, though she seems not to be aware of her dog's inate tendencies. Missy has been aggressive and forced to leave the park. So has Tuxedo, another Pit Bull, seven or-eight months old when we first met him. Then, he was a fair - though rough - player and another friend of Maggie's. Lately, there have been some vicious incidents. Milo, a Viszla/Pit Bull mix always escalates play into something fierce.
Ironically, the night before in Chicago, a Pit Bull had attacked two children. I know only too well, the adage, "There are no bad dogs, only bad owners." But Pit Bulls seem always to be the breed at the centre of canine violence. Oh sure, other dogs at the park have been forceful and imposing, baring teeth and making lots of noise. There are two Huskies, Koda and Aspen of whom I'm a bit leery. Their owner is aware of their potential and says it concerns him. He keeps them in close watch. Nicky, the extroverted Border Collie was attacked by two Golden Retrievers whose owner said, "They've never done that before!" She wasn't even apologetic.
In fact, I suspect most dogs have it in them "snap". You know what? I don't really believe that. I can't imagine my docile 11-month-old Great Dane ever turning on another dog. But I have seen Beauregard, her cousin, almost lose it with the brindle Great Dane, Zyedeco who actually has pinned down Mason, the American barrel-of-a-dog-Bulldog. And, Hutchie, my cute and woolly male toy poodle has snarled and lept at Maggie and grabbed her jowls until she shrieked. I suppose a day might come when Maggie might retaliate, which would be terrifying.
After Gracie's attack, people were again saying Pit Bulls should be banned from the park, or at least muzzled and kept on a leash. They reiterated that Pit Bulls have been bred to fight and can't ever be trusted. That's when the owner of Claire, an English Bull Terrier said, "So has my dog." Claire is one of the jolliest dogs in the park.
I hate to say it, but I'd be glad if I never saw another Pit Bull there.
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